


gonna dream of how you (tasted)

by hereforlou



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Homophobia, M/M, Misunderstandings, Public Sex, Racism, basically the OC is an asshole
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-20 10:18:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14258850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hereforlou/pseuds/hereforlou
Summary: It was clear that they were not going to talk about how they knew each other. Harry was relieved, he didn’t need Louis to spell out how fast he’d wanted to get out of the house back then, but it also made him anxious. The fact that they had seen each other naked and they were pretending it had never happened was hanging between them.I had your dick in my mouth,Harry thought loudly at Louis, and then remembered there was a baby in the room and felt a little dirty. He decided to stop thinking about it altogether - Louis seemed to be managing just fine.(Or, the one where Harry needs a handyman and it turns out they have a bit of a history.)





	gonna dream of how you (tasted)

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Anything But(t) Challenge for the prompt Home Depot/Oral. Hopefully the prompter likes it! 
> 
> Edited by the wonderful [E](https://archiveofourown.org/users/polka_stripes/pseuds/polka_stripes) and [Chloe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelarry10/pseuds/lovelarry10), who are seriously the best. 
> 
> Here's a [Tumblr](https://hereforlou.tumblr.com/post/173610487936/gonna-dream-of-how-you-tasted-complete-21k-it) post. Please pay attention to the tags just in case! Enjoy!

Harry was going to miss the house.

He was going to miss his room with its view of the quiet street below, the kitchen with its decrepit appliances and sticky counters, the creaky stairs and the loose step they never fixed that Harry tripped over at least once a week. He was going to miss their neighbours, old Ms. Torres on one side and the Martinez family on the other. He would miss their street and all the little shops where he practiced his Spanish every day, embarrassing himself more often than not. He would miss Bigotes, and waking up to Ms. Torres singing from her front stoop, and the smell of tortas fritas wafting in through the windows on rainy sundays.

He would miss everything except _Marcus_.

Marcus and his shitty, unpredictable moods. Marcus and his rude words towards shop attendants who didn’t understand him when he spoke too fast. Marcus and all his rules and schedules and silly compromises. Marcus and his badly concealed distaste for Harry and everything he did or said.

Harry was sad to be forced to move but he was not sad to see Marcus go. He said as much to Bigotes, who meowed back at him and bumped against his hand, begging for a scratch.

“You don’t even care,” he told the cat, rubbing his fuzzy chin with the tip of his finger. “You’ll forget all about me, won’t you. You’re just after a good cuddle.”

Bigotes didn’t correct him - Harry was onto him.

Harry had been living in the house for four terrible days when he first met Bigotes. They didn’t talk about their first meeting often, because Bigotes had broken in and Harry had thrown a book at him when the kitten had jumped up on the sofa without warning. Neither of them was proud of their behaviour. They had called a truce not much later, when Harry shared a bit of his dinner and Bigotes (as the tag on his collar declared ) let Harry pet his belly without scratching the shit out of him.

That had been two years earlier, and Harry knew Bigotes had a home of his own and a family that loved him and would miss him terribly, but he was still tempted to pack him in a bag and take the furry little guy with him. To where, he didn’t know yet, but wherever he was going would be a lot less lonely with a friend in tow.

Harry wasn’t exactly lacking in friends, just friends who were looking for flatmates right in the middle of the school year and willing to move to a secluded little street in East London where English was not anyone’s mother tongue. Those were the friends missing in his life.

As it was, Harry was facing either rooming with strangers closer to the city centre, or moving in with Gemma and her boyfriend, Marcus’ much nicer and far more polite cousin.

“I’d much rather share with you, Señor Bigotes,” Harry groused, fingers still stroking soft fur. “You’d never judge me, would you?”

Bigotes’ eyes were closed in bliss, his rump held up high. Outside it was pouring rain. The living room was freezing, as the heater only worked when it felt like it, but Harry was happy in a cocoon of blankets, wearing the thickest, fuzziest pair of socks he owned. Bigotes’ weight on his lap made him warmer, he didn’t even care about all the cat hair.

Marcus would, though, which is why Harry never sat on the sofa anymore when Bigotes visited. The floor was hard on his bum, but all his blankets provided at least some cushioning.

“The things I do for you, mister. You should be thankful.”

“Are you talking to that cat again?” A voice drifted down from upstairs and Harry made a face at Bigotes. _This guy again_. Bigotes looked bored. “He better not be on the couch.”

Harry rolled his eyes. Marcus was leaving in less than a week, why did he care what happened with _Harry’s_ old sofa?

Two years. Harry had lived with this bloke for two years and somehow not murdered him. Or told him off. Or confronted him in any way that mattered.

“You’re too nice,” Gemma always told him.

“You’re a pushover,” Niall offered.

“ _Mandalo a freir churros_ ,” Ms. Torres advised. Harry had no idea what that meant (he understood _churros_ , but that was about it), but one of the Martinez kids helpfully translated as “Tell him to go fuck himself.” He probably took some artistic liberties, since old Ms. Torres had nearly fallen off her chair in shock.

None of their neighbours liked Marcus. Some of them had disliked him as soon as they’d heard his accent, muttering _Gringo_ among themselves and looking down from their windows as Harry and Marcus unloaded the lorry with their stuff. The rest didn’t like him simply because Marcus was an absolute prick on top of being American and had never been anything remotely nice to anyone on their street.

Marcus hated the house, and the little shops, and their neighbours. It was no secret that he was only living there under duress, since he complained about it loudly and often, usually while sitting in their little garden behind the house where everyone on their block could hear. He even hated sweet Bigotes, and the only reason he didn’t throw him out every time he made an appearance was because Marcus’ mother was a massive cat lover and, according to Gemma’s boyfriend, she had put the fear of God into him.

“Rumour has it he snapped a rubberband at one of her cats when he was a kid and she made him sleep in the bathtub for a week.”

Harry had been slightly horrified after hearing that story, and hoped it wasn’t true, but was still grateful for Bigotes’ presence in his life. Whatever Marcus’ mum had done allowed Harry to have his mate with him in these trying times, so he tried not to think much about it.

Bigotes was allowed inside as long as he followed certain rules, but that was about as much flexibility as Marcus tolerated, and Harry had no choice but to bend to every other whim and demand.

It would have been so much easier to leave earlier, at the beginning, if he hadn’t loved the house so much, if he hadn’t been so charmed by the little street that felt like a different world, and if he hadn’t been so utterly and embarrassingly _broke_.

Marcus was doing Harry a huge favour (as he liked to inform everyone he spoke to) and Harry had to keep his mouth shut.

Now two years were up, Marcus was finished with his Master’s, he was going back to America, and Harry would be homeless and Bigotes-less and _still_ pretty much broke starting Saturday.

“Styles,” Marcus called from upstairs. The ceiling creaked as he walked around his bedroom over Harry’s head.

“Yeah?” Harry called back, making Bigotes swish his tail in annoyance.

“Is the cat on the couch?”

“Oh my God,” Harry muttered to said cat, who was now happily licking his own bollocks (or where his bollocks used to be) on Harry’s lap. On the floor. The cold, hard floor. He shouted back, “No, he’s not!”

“Did you take my duct tape?”

Harry rolled his eyes. Everything Marcus even so much as glanced at became his. Gemma’s boyfriend said it was only child syndrome. Harry thought he was just an arsehole. Harry had bought that roll of tape himself weeks ago.

“It’s in my room!”

Harry heard steps upstairs going from one room to another. Harry didn’t mind Marcus in his bedroom. Marcus locked his every time he left the house, and Harry was definitely, one hundred percent not allowed inside unless Marcus said it was okay and was there to supervise, as if Harry was a child.

Harry suspected Marcus was afraid of him going through his underwear drawer more than anything else. As if Harry would ever, _ever_ go near his pants. He didn’t even do the bloke’s laundry (Marcus didn’t like it, said Harry shouldn’t act like his little wife, said it was pathetic. Marcus was a prick.).

“You don’t mind me cleaning after you, d’ya, Biggie?”

Bigotes ignored him, and Harry didn’t blame him. It was always a little sad when he turned to the cat for validation.

“You’re not an ignorant bigot, are you? No, you’re not. Who’s not an homophobic prick, huh? You’re not. Who’s a _sweet_ boy? _You are_.”

Harry’s voice had gone all high and ridiculous when Marcus appeared at the top of the stairs. Harry didn’t need to turn his head to know what look was on his face.

“It’s not in your room,” he said.

“What?”

“The tape,” Marcus said, sounding exasperated. He always sounded exasperated, as if he thought he was the smartest person in the room and talking to you was a waste of his time.

“It’s on my desk. I used it to fix my lamp-”

“It’s not there, Styles. Get off the floor and find it, would you? I need to pack. Why did you even take it?”

Harry let out a huge breath, ruffling Bigotes’ fur and making him twitch his nose. Harry poked it, hopelessly endeared.

“Today,” Marcus sighed.

No, Harry was not going to miss him at all.

He was careful setting Bigotes on the floor, who sat and stared as Harry got on his feet. He put his bundle of blankets on the spot where he had been sitting and smiled as Bigotes quickly took his place, burrowing down where it was still warm. Happy that the cat was happy, Harry stretched out his limbs and turned towards the stairs, where Marcus was waiting, an impatient scowl on his face.

“You sure like to take your time, don’t you?” That tone again, the scolding parent tone. Not even Harry’s mum talked to him like that. Harry wished he were the sort of person who would move even slower as a response to Marcus’ comment, but he hurried instead, and tripped over the loose step and had to catch himself before he knocked his teeth in. “Jesus Christ,” he heard Marcus mutter, feeling his cheeks burn.

At least Harry didn’t cry anymore. It had been bad, at first. He wasn’t used to people being rude to him for no reason, wasn’t used to people not liking him. He had been desperate to be likeable at the beginning, literally couldn't afford Marcus to get tired of him and throw him out. He’d been eager to please, pretending not to hear the man’s snide quips, stressing over every little thing he did that seemed to make Marcus moodier. Used to hold back tears when he spoke to his mum on the phone to tell her how well he was adjusting to the city, how Marcus was so nice to let him stay in the house for free.

“Have to get that fixed before Saturday,” Marcus said, not moving from his spot on the landing as Harry regained his balance. He did move when Harry made it up the stairs, stepping back so as not to have their arms brush together. God, Harry couldn’t stand him. He hunched his shoulders and turned towards his bedroom, the door open and the light on, and could see the roll of tape on his desk even before he set a foot inside.

He kept his mouth shut, grabbed it and turned back around. Marcus was waiting by his own - closed - door, arms crossed in front of himself. Harry resisted the urge to hurl the tape at his head, and instead stretched his arm out and offered with a strained smile on his face. Sometimes he thought maybe his mum had done too good a job teaching him manners, and had never really explained how to deal with arseholes other than ‘ignore them and walk away.’ What happened when walking away wasn’t an option? Maybe after Marcus was finally gone Harry would ask his mother. That way he would know what to do in case he ever found himself in a similar situation again, but he wouldn’t have to actually try anything with Marcus. The less he saw of Marcus during their last week together, the better.

The tape was snatched out of his hand a little forcefully, and Harry put his hand down and behind his back so his clenched fist wouldn’t be visible.

“Try not to take my stuff, okay? And don’t go into my room.”  

Harry swallowed a few choice answers with some effort, and instead gave Marcus a tight smile, “Anything else?”

Marcus shook his head and made to go into his room before he stopped. He looked Harry up and down over his shoulder and Harry quickly catalogued the way he looked without looking at himself. Sweater, jeans, socks, woollen hat on his head. Nothing too offensive, he didn’t think. Nothing was pink or ripped or had any weird pattern on it, but still he could feel Marcus’ disapproval even in his silence. Harry tried not to let it bother him, but he couldn’t help it, it still stung. It still felt unfair, even if he didn’t give a shit about what Marcus thought of him.  

“You know people, don’t you?” Marcus asked, and Harry startled, snapping back to attention.

“What?”

“You know people,” Marcus sighed, as if having to repeat himself was the worst thing that could happen to him. “Other than your little gang of street children. And the old woman next door.”

Harry bristled. Marcus knew their names. No matter how much he pretended he didn’t live where he did, they were his neighbours, too.

“Yeah, I know people,” he said, jaw set.

“We need a handyman.”

Thrown, Harry could only blink for a moment. “A what now?”

“A handyman,” Marcus said again, slow, eyes wide as he made a poor impression of Harry’s accent. He was such a tit. “To fix the place up before Saturday. There’s a bunch of stuff my aunt wants me to get done, but I’m not going to stick my head in the downstairs toilet, I never even use it.” The downstairs toilet had been out of commission since the day they first moved in. When he’d discovered it, Harry had shut off the water valve and never tried to use it again. The sound the pipes made when he’d tried to flush still haunted him, a groan deep and anguished as if there was a person stuck behind the wall. “Call someone, will you? Someone who speaks English as a first language.”

“Ms. Torres’ son can-”

“No, no Torres, no Martinez, no Garcia.” He had a terrible accent, didn’t even try with the _r_ ’s , and while normally Harry got a kick out of Marcus trying to roll his tongue, he wasn’t finding this conversation amusing. “They hate me, they’ll destroy the place.”

“They wouldn’t-”

“I’m paying for it, it’s my call.”

Marcus’ favourite pastime was to remind Harry just how little power Harry had over whatever happened in the house. Despite what Marcus wanted to believe, Harry had a job. He could afford to buy groceries - he bought most of their food, he bought cleaning products, he bought the toiletpaper Marcus used to wipe his arse, the coffee he managed to burn every morning. But no, he didn’t pay rent, he didn’t pay for utilities, he wasn’t the owner’s nephew. He had no say when it came to the house itself, and the few times he’d taken initiative to fix something, like the bloody step on the stairs that would kill one of them before Saturday for sure, Marcus had been quick to inform him that any repair he wanted to make would come solely out of Harry’s pocket, since nobody was asking him to do it in the first place.

Marcus had the right to hire whoever the hell he wanted, and Harry didn’t have to be involved at all. He wasn’t paying for it, after all.

“I don’t know anyone, then,” he said, prickly with anger.

“What? No friends your own age who know their way around a toolbelt?”

“No,” Harry gritted out, knowing where Marcus was going even before he saw the flash in his eyes, the pull on the right corner of his mouth.

“Guess you wouldn’t,” he said, again looking Hary up and down. “Your only friends are old ladies and cats, aren’t they? I guess anyone else you know isn’t the kind to get their hands dirty.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Harry asked, his stomach turning. He was good at being angry, but he was bad at confrontation. He wasn’t quick enough, or mean enough, to hold his own in an argument with someone like Marcus. And while Harry was proud to have as little in common as possible with people like him, he hated to appear weak. He hated to think he was proving Marcus’ prejudiced notions right.

“You know what I mean, princess.”

Harry could feel how wide his eyes got, could feel anger rising in him like boiling water, but he was frozen in place as Marcus finally unlocked his door and disappeared into his bedroom. As soon as he was out of sight, Harry deflated like a punctured balloon, an ugly feeling left in the pit of his stomach.

He trudged down the stairs, rubbing the sting in his eyes away, and the sight of Bigotes curled up just where he’d left him cheered him up a bit.

“Hey, fluffball,” he called, his voice a little hoarse, and he was glad Marcus wasn’t there to hear how worked up Harry got every time they had a row. Or, not a row, but a confrontation. Or a situation where Marcus said something cutting and ignorant and Harry just took it, always shocked that Marcus had actually said whatever he’d said, and unable to defend himself.  

Bigotes lifted his head and regarded him seriously. He had two white spots around his eyes that looked like hearts, the smallest, pinkest nose Harry had ever seen, and the longest whiskers. Harry crouched in front of him and scratched the top of his head.

“What long bigotes you have, mister,” he said, smiling into his knees as Bigotes batted his hand away. “What fluffy hair. Such a handsome boy, aren’t you?”

Bigotes yawned, little tongue curling into his mouth. Harry knew better than to poke there, no matter how tempted he was.

“Scooch,” he said, and picked Bigotes up. The cat meowed in protest, but let Harry reclaim his spot and let himself be cuddled against Harry’s chest for ten wonderful seconds before he began squirming.

Outside, the wind picked up and down the tiny hallway the lights flickered in the kitchen. The walls creaked and the windowpanes shuddered. The ceiling groaned as Marcus moved around upstairs.

Sometimes it felt as if the only thing keeping the house upright were the two other houses pressing against it on either side of it, Ms. Torres on one side and the Martinez family on the other. Harry felt like that sometimes, too. With his mum in another city and Gemma busy with her own life, Harry had adopted his neighbours, or maybe they had adopted him, and there wasn’t a day that went by when he wasn’t grateful he had a place just next door to run away to when he needed a motherly pat on the head or a good ribbing.

Bigotes settled on Harry’s lap after a short kneading session, curling himself into a small fluffy ball. Harry leaned back against the sofa leg and tried to get comfortable for the long haul - Bigotes’ rests could go from twenty-minute power naps to five or six full sleep cycles and Harry’s feet had a tendency to cramp up if they got too cold. He wished he had thought of grabbing his phone from his room before coming back downstairs, but it was too late now. At least Bigotes’ weight was a good distraction from the heaviness on his heart, and the sight of his little belly rising and falling with every breath was somewhat calming.

Harry couldn’t wait to see the back of Marcus. Couldn’t wait not to be forced to spend another second under the same roof as him. But he was going to miss his naps with Bigotes. He was going to miss the house.

.

Ms. Torres shoved a plate under Harry’s nose, ignoring the way he was splayed out in his chair, clutching at his belly.

“Eat some more, come on,” she said, and didn’t move away until Harry took the plate from her. He groaned sitting up, too full to move, but not shameless enough to unbutton his jeans, not even underneath his shirt. “You’ll miss my cooking when you go, you’ll see.”

“I’ll still visit,” he argued, shoveling stir fry into his mouth. He swallowed before speaking again. “You’ll feed me even if we’re not next door neighbours, yeah?” He might not be able to afford food anymore if he had to start paying rent somewhere. He would have to get his meals wherever he could.

Ms. Torres huffed as she sat across from him. For once, it was only the two of them in her kitchen, since the oldest Martinez kids were playing football down at the park and Kate, Ms. Torres’ cousin or lifelong friend or partner (Harry wasn’t quite sure and felt it was too late to ask) was visiting family. It was strange for the house to be so quiet on a Sunday, but Harry enjoyed being doted on without competition. He’d already spied a custard pie in the fridge when he was getting their drinks earlier, and he knew he would be going home with an extra piece if no one else was here to fight him for it.

“You don’t have to move, let the American leave, you stay,” Ms. Torres said. She was on her third glass of wine - she always got a little fired up if she had more than two. “Just tell him not to take the flowers from the windows. I take care of those, you know.”

“He’s not gonna take the flowers to America,” Harry laughed, although he secretly thought Marcus would be the kind of person to throw the flowers away just to spite them. Marcus didn’t like the flowers at all, but every time he tried to ask Ms. Torres to stop watering them, she looked at him blankly and claimed she didn’t speak English, even if she had just been talking with Harry a moment before. It drove Marcus mad, everything about their neighbours did, and Harry was sort of going to miss watching him turn red at being ignored.

Ms. Torres lifted her wineglass to her lips and gave Harry a somber look over the rim. “You make sure he doesn’t,” she said, and then winked. It was possible she was a little tipsy. “You should find yourself a nice boy to help you stay. You know, Kate’s nephew-”

“I’ve met Kate’s nephew, ma’am. He’s taken.”

“Oh, that’s not going to last. You’re better looking, anyway. And Kate would be happy to have her family close by.”

Harry laughed and shoved more food into his mouth to avoid answering. A visit wasn’t really complete without the topic of Harry’s love life coming up. At least there wasn’t an audience to embarrass Harry further today.

Harry was single, depressingly so, and had been since a month before moving to London two years before. He could count the times he’d gone on a date in those two years with the fingers of one hand, and while he hadn’t been exactly celibate during that time, so far he wasn’t having the wild uni experience he’d dreamed off when he was younger.

In his defence, living with a homophobic control freak did put a bit of a damper on his social life. He wasn’t exactly free to bring whomever he wanted back to the house without going through a small interrogation first. He couldn’t even begin to imagine how awkward the morning after would be with Marcus hovering around. He only had sex in the house once, way back at the beginning, and while the other guy had been gone in the morning, other circumstances had definitely made the following day less than comfortable.

Harry preferred not to think about it much - the consequences of that night still haunted him to this day.

“I was hoping you’d bring a boy home before you moved away,” Ms. Torres went on, apparently not done with the subject. “I would want to meet him. Kate would, too.”

Unexpectedly, Harry felt a lump form in his throat. Ms. Torres was the closest thing he had to a mother figure in the city. She was closer to his nan’s age, but had the spirit of someone much, much younger. He had grown to love her in the two years they had been neighbours, and he was going to miss her terribly.

“I’ll make sure to bring him around if I ever do meet someone,” he said with some effort. “I’d want you to approve of him.”

Ms. Torres nodded, wineglass still held aloft.

“You’ll meet a good boy, I know it,” she said before her dark eyes narrowed slightly. “You and the American aren’t….”

She didn’t finish the sentence, and it took a second for her meaning to sink in. When it did, Harry nearly coughed up the mouthful of stir fry he had just swallowed.

“N-no! Oh my God, no,” he spluttered. “He’d never, _I_ would never-”

The idea alone was ludicrous. Not only was Marcus a horrible person, but he was so insecure, so paranoid of people assuming he was gay that he would probably chop his own dick off before even considering touching Harry in a non-platonic way. Harry didn’t know if Marcus was in denial (as Niall had more than once suggested) or just really, really straight and narrow-minded, and he didn’t care. Nothing would excuse the way he had been treating Harry almost since the moment they set foot in the house.

“Good,” Ms. Torres said with a firm nod. “We were worried, Kate and I. He’s not a nice boy for you.”

“No, he’s not a nice boy at all. I think he has a girlfriend back in the States, though.” At that, her eyebrows shot up. She was quite fond of gossip, and Harry had to smile at the way she leaned in, pointy elbows on the table.

“A _girlfriend_ ,” she mused. “Tell me more.”

Harry didn’t know more, him and Marcus weren’t exactly the type of housemates who had chats over breakfast or informed each other of what they did when not in direct contact. What little Harry knew, he knew because of Gemma and her boyfriend Paul, Marcus’ cousin. Of course, not knowing what he was talking about didn’t stop him from leaning in, ignoring his full belly and the way his waistband pinched at it, and sharing with Ms. Torres all his theories about Marcus’ personal life. As the bottle of wine they were sharing emptied, their theories got more and more outrageous, and by the time Kate came back later in the afternoon, they were both giggling as they tried to guess all of Marcus’ mother’s cats’ names. They had decided she had nineteen of them, and that she had given them Marcus’ bedroom as soon as he’d moved out.

Not being drunk, Kate did not find their conversation as amusing as they did. Being a bit drunk, Harry cooed a little too loudly at Kate’s photos of her brother’s newborn grandson. There hadn’t been a baby in his family in ages. Thank goodness for Julia Martinez and her chubby cheeks and parents who trusted Harry enough to let him babysit twice a week.

Against his better judgement, he accepted a piece of custard pie when Ms. Torres offered, and later, after he promised not to share with Marcus, he stumbled back home with an extra portion, dizzy and full to burst. He found Bigotes sitting on the stoop, watching calmly as Harry toddled over to him. Harry didn’t even try to bend down to pet him, just unlocked the door and let the cat in.

Surprisingly, the house was warm. The heating had decided to work properly today, and Harry quickly shed his boots and his coat, balancing the dish in his hand and trying not to step on Bigotes as he did so. He had a hand on his fly, ready to finally unbutton his jeans and breathe properly for the first time in hours, when he turned and nearly walked right into Marcus.

Harry yelped, stumbled back and caught himself against the wall, plate somehow still safe in his other hand.

“Were you planning on getting naked in the hall?” Marcus asked, his face all scrunched up in disgust. It made Harry kind of want to cover himself, even if he hadn’t managed to unbutton his jeans after all.

“No, I- I was going up to my room,” he said, pushing away from the wall to stand straight. He was taller than Marcus by a good couple of inches, although not as broad. It wouldn’t have mattered if Harry was bigger, though. Marcus wasn’t physically intimidating, just intense in general. Every time Marcus gave him one of his onceovers, Harry felt assessed, picked apart. He felt watched even when Marcus wasn’t in the room with him. At least moving would mean Harry would be able to finally relax in whatever new home he found.

“ _Your_ room. You sure which one that is, right?” Marcus asked and Harry’s face burned. He didn’t need to be reminded of that particular incident twice in one day, thank you.

“Yes, yes, my room. I need to change.”

“Alright, wait until you’re behind closed doors to start stripping, then.” Marcus moved then, gave Harry a very wide berth for him to walk by without them accidentally touching, and Harry shuffled by, trying hard not let his face betray a thing about what he was feeling. Which was fed up. And confused. It hadn’t been this bad before. Marcus had always been an arsehole, but he hardly ever used to to go out of his way to pick on Harry. He’d only started when they had put a date on them leaving the house a few weeks back, and Harry wondered if Marcus had been keeping it in the last two years, all the mean comments and jokes. He’d always given Harry looks, always avoided touching him as much as possible, but he never used to be quite so direct. Harry didn’t know how to handle it.

“Wrong way, bud,” Marcus called when Harry made for the kitchen. “Had too much wine with the old lady, did you?”

Harry didn’t answer. He walked up to the fridge and put his portion of Ms. Torres’ pie inside. He didn’t need to warn Marcus not to touch it, everything in the fridge was meticulously labeled and organized so that each of them had their own shelf and compartment. Marcus wouldn’t touch food made by any of their neighbours anyway, probably too afraid of it being poisoned or something.

Bigotes had followed him to the kitchen, and Harry took a second to let him rub against his legs in greeting (or begging for a treat, whatever). Through the window, he could hear the Martinez kids returning from their game, loud as usual, their voices carrying down the street. They were probably covered in mud, and his suspicions were confirmed when their mother’s voice rang out over theirs a moment later. She was speaking in Spanish, as she always did when she scolded them, and Harry didn’t understand a single word, although he understood the kids’ meek apologies, all muttered right as they walked under his kitchen window.

The houses on his street were all packed together quite closely, so much so that him and his neighbours shared a little patch of grass between their kitchen walls. Sometimes Harry had entire conversations with the people next door while he did the dishes, and he never even needed to raise his voice.

He wasn’t in the mood for a chat right now. The wine was turning sour in his belly, and he was dreading walking back into the hall on his way up to his room. He really wasn’t sure if he could handle Marcus saying another word to him, not if he was purposefully trying to be hurtful.

He had to suck it up eventually when even Bigotes got tired of waiting and walked away without him. With a sigh, Harry exited the kitchen and tried to power walk to the stairs. His jeans were really pinching now, and he wanted to strip down to his pants and throw himself on his bed until the dizziness wore off.

He was nearly on the upstairs landing when Marcus called out to him.

“Hey.” Harry stopped, closed his eyes and took a breath. _One week_ , he told himself. “There’s a guy coming tomorrow to start working on the house. You’ll be here, right?”

“What time?” Harry asked.

“You don’t have class on Mondays,” Marcus said, which was not an answer to Harry’s question.

“No, but I have stuff to do.”

“The guy said around eleven,” Marcus told him, and he didn’t sound happy. “You’ll be here, right? I mean, I called him, least you can do is make sure he gets in and doesn’t, like, steal anything.”

At that, Harry turned. He had to go down a couple of steps to be able to see Marcus properly, sitting on the sofa, his phone in his hand.

“Where did you find him?”

“He’s Paul’s friend,” Marcus said.

“And you think your cousin’s friend is going to rob you?”

Harry saw Marcus shrug, attention focused on his mobile, and stopped himself from rolling his eyes.

“Fine, yeah, I’ll be here.”

“Knew you didn’t have plans.” There was a smirk on Marcus’ stupid face. Harry nearly took everything back and told him to wait for the handyman himself. But that would have been childish, and Harry could at least act like the bigger person.

If he stuck his tongue out at him, Marcus, with his nose nearly pressed against his phone screen, never found out.

.

Little Julia Martinez was 10 months old, and Harry had been in love with her since the first time her mother had let him hold her when she was only a few days old. He wasn’t sure how it had happened, but a few favours here and there when no one else was available had eventually led to Harry babysitting regularly. Mondays and Wednesdays, the days he didn’t have any classes, Harry went next door and spent the morning and better part of the afternoon hanging out with Julia.

On the Monday the handyman was supposed to come over, Harry brought Julia and a bag with all the things she might need to his place. He didn’t babysit in the house often, mostly because the baby felt better surrounded by everything she found familiar, but also because Marcus was as fussy about her as he was about Bigotes. He was always worried Julia would break something, or somehow get into his (locked) room, as if she could walk anywhere without holding onto both of Harry’s hands, or even cared about whatever boring stuff Marcus kept in his room.

Julia spent the first hour at the house exploring. She crawled everywhere she could fit, went from the sitting room to the kitchen to the backdoor back to the staircase. She tried to crawl up to the first step but stopped when Harry told her no, and then spent a good five minutes gazing up at the second storey with a little furrow between her eyebrows and arguing with Harry with increasingly more enraged little shouts.

Harry had just managed to distract her with a magazine, helping her rip strips out of each page and laughing when she cackled at the amusing sound, when the doorbell rang.

Julia startled, head coming up, her mouth rounded in a little ‘o’ of surprise. The doorbell probably sounded just like her house’s, and she knew it meant company.

“Who’s here?” Harry asked her as he got on his feet. Julia shouted, a short ‘ah!’ that sounded to Harry like a ‘let’s find out!’ rather than her more angry ‘ah’s’ from before, when she was being stroppy about the stairs. She got on all fours, ready to follow after him, but Harry picked her up.

She pointed at the door, bouncing a little in his arms, and Harry obliged, not bothering to fix the mess of shredded paper they had left on the floor.

“Who is it?” he called in a sing-song, mostly for Julia’s benefit. He put a finger over his lips, which she clumsily copied, and they waited for the answer.

“Hey, it’s Paul’s friend!” The voice coming through the door sounded vaguely familiar, and Harry was already reaching for the handle when the man on the other side kept speaking. “He asked me to come fix some stuff. Name’s Louis?”

Harry froze.

It couldn’t be. What were the chances of it being the same Louis? No way, it had to be a coincidence. Did Paul know _that_ Louis? It would make sense, since the Louis from back then had been at the house, someone had invited him. Maybe if Harry hadn’t been so drunk he would have asked.

All of that was running through Harry’s head as he inched his hand closer to the handle. Time seemed suspended, Julia babbled impatiently, sat atop the crook of his elbow, and Harry chewed on his lip, considering not answering the door at all. Would that be too rude? How angry would Marcus be if he came home to find not a single one of the million little things he need to get fixed done?

“Erm, hello?” Louis said from outside, sounding closer to the door than a moment before, and Harry grimaced. Julia, in what was probably meant to be a loving nudge, smacked him on the nose hard enough to make his eyes water.

“Geez, fine, okay,” Harry muttered, pulled the door open, and. Louis. Louis was there. _The_ Louis.

He looked about the same, Harry decided quickly, although wearing a lot more clothes than the last time Harry had seen him. He was all bundled up, hat and scarf covering most of his face so that his eyes looked even bluer than was probably natural. Harry saw those blue eyes widening slightly in surprise as Louis took in his face, and then jumping down to Julia and softening immediately, curving into a smile that was half hidden by fabric.

“Why, good morning, darling,” Louis said. To the baby, of course, leaning forward but making no move to reach out and touch. Julia was very still in Harry’s arms, almost as if she could feel how tense Harry had gone and was mimicking him. “Isn’t it a little too cold for that outfit?”

That snapped Harry out of his trance, and he came back to the real world to realise that yes, it was too cold outside to stand by the open door in short sleeves, holding a baby who was wearing nothing but a thin bodysuit.

“Yeah, no,” Harry said, making no sense, and Julia turned to him. Harry held her a little closer. “The heat, it’s hot. I mean-” What the fuck was he saying? “I mean, the heat doesn’t work properly. It’s very warm inside.”

“Sounds quite nice,” Louis said, a smile in his voice, and Harry jumped into motion like Julia’s scary Jack-in-a-box. He moved behind the door, hopefully hiding how red his face was getting.

“Come in! Sorry!”

Louis did, carrying a heavy-looking duffel and a tool box. Both Julia and Harry stared until Louis started to fidget.

“Might wanna close the door now,” he said and Harry all but slammed it shut. Julia jumped in his arms, turning wide brown eyes on him.

“Sorry, love,” Harry told her, hoping she wouldn’t start crying. It would be just what Harry needed to calm down, being locked in a house with a sobbing baby and the boy who had unknowingly made his life with Marcus that much more difficult, just by not being a polite one-night-stand who stayed until morning and awkwardly asked to be let out. “Um,” Harry said to Louis, who was looking rather uncomfortable standing there in his thick outside clothes. The heater had chosen a particularly cold day to play at making the place feel like a molten rock of lava. Harry had woken up sweating in the middle of the night, had ended up sleeping naked for the first time in months. “You can take your kit off, if you want. Leave it over there.” He gestured at the coat rack in the corner.

Louis looked behind him before giving Harry a small smile and setting his bag and toolbox on the floor. Watching him undress made Harry feel even warmer, and he found himself staring, body still as he watched Louis unfurl his scarf from around his neck, pull his hat off his head so that his hair stood on end, shrug his coat off and step on each of his heels to get his trainers off.

“Oh,” Louis said then, staring down at his feet. “I should actually leave those on, shouldn’t I?”

Harry shrugged. Maybe Louis didn’t remember him. It was possible, two years was a long time, after all, and Harry liked to think he didn’t look quite as young and gangly as he used to. He had put on some weight, he filled his jeans nicely now, his hair was longer and not as tall as he used to wear it. Maybe he was unrecognizable. Or maybe that night had been completely unremarkable. Not to Harry, perhaps, but Louis had certainly not stayed long enough to reassure Harry that he’d had a good time, too.

Louis put his shoes back on.

“So,” he said, looking at Harry through his fringe, eyes flicking between him and Julia. “What is it you need me for, then?”

It’s not like they’d had _actual,_ cock-in-bum sex - they hadn’t been able to find condoms or lube, even though Harry _knew_ he had some in a box by the bed, then still unpacked. There had been too many people in the house, anyway, people talking and walking up and down the hallway just out the door, which had seemed to switched walls when Harry wasn’t looking. It wasn’t until the next morning that he realised why everything in his new room looked slightly different to the way Harry remembered, but that night they had stumbled in attached at the mouth, hands already underneath each other’s shirts. They had tripped over themselves kicking off their shoes and fumbling with the zippers on their jeans. When they hadn’t been able to find supplies, Harry had dropped to his knees and swallowed Louis down, pressing the heel of his hand against his own cock, trying to stave off his orgasm.

But the noises Louis made were too much, the taste of him on Harry’s tongue, the feel of muscles tensing beneath warm skin where Harry held onto his thigh. He came before Louis did, groaning around him, pulling himself off and trying not to let the rhythm he had going falter.

When Louis had gone for him later, Harry hadn’t even been embarrassed about having finished. Louis certainly didn’t seem to find it embarrassing, if the way his eyes had gone dark and the sharp bite he had given Harry’s shoulder were anything to go by. He’d even let Harry pull him onto the bed (firmer than he remembered, the covers scratchy against his skin) and kiss him again, deep and lazy before they drifted off to sleep, the housewarming party Gemma had organized still going downstairs.

“I’ve got a list,” Harry said now, seeing Louis for the first time since then, for the second time in his life. He looked scruffier, and the joggers and jumper he was wearing were nothing like the painted on jeans and tight t-shirt had last seen him in. “Um, I’ll go get it.”

He hurried to the kitchen as Julia babbled at Louis over his shoulder. Maybe this was punishment for saying all those awful things about Marcus with Ms. Torres the day before. He hadn’t been the one saying the awful things, but he had agreed, and he had laughed when Ms. Torres had joked about Marcus going bald before thirty-five because of the way he stressed about everything. Marcus had said worse to Harry’s face, probably much, much worse behind Harry’s back, but people like Marcus rarely got what they had coming.

The morning after Louis and he had met, Harry had woken up to Marcus entering the room. They had both gone very still before Marcus’ face had twisted in disgust and anger and Harry had realised, horrified, that he wasn’t wearing anything other than his shirt under the covers. The covers on Marcus’ bed, in Marcus’ room, where a few hours before, Harry had blown a boy who seemed to be long gone, thinking they were in _his_ room.

“I’m so-” Harry had started to apologise, moving to get up, but Marcus had backed out of the room and slammed the door, cutting Harry off.

“Get dressed and get out,” he’d ordered from outside. They had met only two days before and Marcus probably thought this was Harry’s way of coming onto him. He only needed to explain and then they could laugh about the whole thing.

He didn’t know Marcus very well back then.

After Harry had found his clothes and stepped outside, Marcus looked at him a little strangely. Harry tried to smile, still wondering if maybe Louis, the cute boy from the night before, was waiting downstairs.

“What the fuck is your problem?” Marcus asked and Harry’s smile dropped from his face. “Are you gay or something?”

Harry frowned. “Um, yes? But-”

“Christ, is this Paul’s idea of a joke? Did you seriously wait for me fucking naked in my bed?”

“No!” Harry cried. “No, I mixed up the rooms, it was an accident.”

Marcus still locked his room to this day, too scared of Harry wandering in starkers and attacking him or something. Since that morning, he had tried to kick Harry out, tried to drive him to leave on his own, did everything to make Harry’s life as difficult as possible. And to this day, Harry was sure that if Louis had stayed, he would have been able to convince Marcus that Harry falling asleep in his bed had nothing to do with _him_ , he had just been too preoccupied to see where he was before closing his eyes.

It wouldn’t have done anything to make Marcus less of a prick, but at least he wouldn’t think Harry wanted in his pants.

The list of things for Louis to do was stuck to the fridge, written in Marcus’ neat print. Harry took it and handed it to Julia when she reached for it, hoping it would stay out of her mouth.

“That’s for Louis,” Harry told her. “Louis is the boy in the living room.”

Julia gazed at him before crumpling the paper in an unforgiving fist and waving it up and down as if she was trying to put out a fire.

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Exactly.”

Louis was waiting where Harry had left him, looking around at the half-packed boxes littering the floor. It looked much like the last time he had been there, boxes everywhere, picture frames standing on the floor and leaning against the walls instead of hanging up. Last time they had stood in the living room across from each other, Harry had been holding his third shot glass instead of a baby, and Louis was the boy who had been sending him looks all night.

“Here.” Harry gently took hold of Julia’s arm and extended it towards Louis, the list still held in her vise-like grip. She let go with a friendly ‘ah’ when Louis reached out for it.

“Thank you, miss,” he said, smiling, his eyes slanting quickly towards Harry before he turned towards the list. It took him a moment to go through every item, his eyebrows climbing up a little more for every second that ticked by. “This is...a lot.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Harry mumbled. Julia grabbed his lips and squeezed his mouth shut, surprising a laugh out of him. “Ow.”

Louis smiled at them, “I’ll be honest, mate, I don’t think I know how to help with most of these. Fix a leaky faucet once or twice and people think you actually know what you’re doing.”

Harry couldn’t remember what Louis had said he did for a living back when they met, but he had a vague recollection of him going to school for something art-related. Acting? He shrugged, dislodging Julia with a twist of his mouth.

“If you can do at least one of those things you’re more help than I’d be,” he said. Louis skimmed through the list again.

“We can start with the toilet, I suppose. Get the nasty ones out of the way. And I can do the creaky doors, but might need to pop to the shop for the, um, plaster for the wall. And I’m guessing you need me to paint over that later, as well.”

Harry nodded along as if he’d given Marcus’ list more than a cursory glance when he stuck it on the fridge earlier. He honestly had no idea what exactly Marcus wanted done, the only thing he could think that really needed fixing was the heater and-

“The step,” he said, causing Louis to focus on him again. He cleared his throat. “There’s a loose step on the stairs, we- I keep tripping on it.”

“I remember,” Louis said, voice soft, and then sucked his lips into his mouth, hastily looking down at the list again. Harry had tripped over the bloody step that night, too. Louis’ hands on his hips had kept him more or less upright, and they had laughed about it all the way up to the landing. “I...I didn’t know. I mean, I thought the street looked familiar, but I didn’t realise-”

“It’s fine,” Harry told him. Louis was clearly uncomfortable. He had obviously never meant to see Harry again, but he was at least being gracious about it, trying to be friendly.

Julia, tired of being ignored, whined and squirmed in Harry’s hold, so he set her on the floor. She held his fingers in her hands and pulled herself up, pulling Harry forward.

“Look at the muscle lady!” Louis laughed and squatted on the floor. Julia made a happy sound and pulled Harry his way. “So strong, pulling that big boy behind you like he weighs nothing, aren’t you?”

Harry bit his lip to keep himself from laughing. He walked behind the baby bent nearly in half, just in the way that always made his back hurt later. It was worth it for how happy Julia looked after a good stroll.

“What’s your name then?” Louis asked her as they reached him. Julia seemed wary now that she was closer, staring with her big eyes, wobbling on her little feet.

“Julia,” Harry said for her and she looked up and gave him her famous four-teeth smile.

“Hello, Julia.” Louis tickled her tummy with a finger and she squealed, swinging from her grip on Harry’s fingers. “You’re very cheerful for a Monday morning.”

“She’s an inspiration to us all,” Harry said flatly, and it may have sounded even more morose with his voice, and he may have said it just to hear Louis laugh. Louis did laugh, covering his mouth with the back of his hand, and Harry’s chest swelled a little bit.

“Is your dad grumpy you woke him up?” Louis asked Julia, looking up at Harry through his lashes, very obviously fishing.

“I’m just the babysitter,” Harry said as he coerced Julia to sit down on the floor. She wasn’t happy about it. “And I don’t think eleven counts as morning anymore.”

“It’s before noon, it’s morning,” Louis said and followed suit when Harry finally straightened up. “Not your baby, but your house?”

“Not really.” What had they talked about when they met? Harry was pretty sure Louis had talked and Harry had stared most of the time. “I’m a bit of a freeloader.”

“You do babysit, though.”

“For the neighbours.” Julia crawled away then, straight for the toolbox left near the door. Before Harry could move, Louis was swooping down and sitting himself on the floor, intercepting her.

“Are you going to be helping me today, Julia?” He swung the box to his lap and Julia stared with a wonderstruck expression on her face. “I’ll teach you everything I know. All three things.”

He winked at Harry and opened the toolbox, rummaged in it until he came up with a roll of masking tape. Julia took it as if she was receiving the greatest gift she’d gotten in her short life.

“That’s about the only thing in there that won’t hurt her.” It took Harry too long to realise Louis was talking to him, too caught up watching Julia gaze at her new toy with reverence. “Wanna point me to the loo?”

“What?” Harry asked like a right tit, catching Louis’ eye and blinking down at him. “The loo?”

“The, erm, faulty toilet I’m supposed to be fixing for you.”

“Right, sorry.” The haunted toilet. He pointed Louis to the closed door on the other end of the hall that led to the kitchen.

“What’s wrong with it?” Louis asked as he got up, toolbox in hand, and walked over. The door whined when he opened it, and the light didn’t work when Louis tried to flick it on.

“Um, it doesn’t flush. And it’s creepy, so we don’t use it, but the owner wants everything working properly, so….”

Louis laughed, turning to give Harry a look over his shoulder.

“It is creepy,” he agreed. “But a working light might help with that.”

“I don’t think I have any light bulbs-”

“I can take one from somewhere else, but you should write that down for our shopping list.”

“Shopping list?”

Louis nodded, walking back into the room and looking around. “I’ll drive over to B&Q later.”

He took a light bulb from one of the lamps in the sitting room and replaced the one in the bathroom. Harry offered to shut the power off, but he was waved off.

“Haven’t shocked meself yet.”

As Louis took apart the back of the toilet, Harry played with Julia and her new roll of masking tape while pretending he wasn’t staring at Louis’ bum in those joggers. Did he _need_ to bend over like that?

It was clear that they were not going to talk about how they knew each other. Harry was relieved, he didn’t need Louis to spell out how fast he’d wanted to get out of the house back then, but it also made him anxious. The fact that they had seen each other naked and they were pretending it had never happened was hanging between them.

_I had your dick in my mouth_ , Harry thought loudly at Louis, and then remembered there was a baby in the room and felt a little dirty. He decided to stop thinking about it altogether - Louis seemed to be managing just fine.

Harry was distracted, lying flat on the floor and holding Julia up in the air, when Louis appeared beside them.

“We’ll need to get a replacement valve, nothing too tricky,” he said, making a funny face at Julia before turning to his tools. “What else?”

Harry pointed him to the loose step, and then added a floorboard to his mental shopping list when Louis told him so. He followed Louis around the house, Julia on his hip, and tried not to stare too obviously. Louis was just as lovely as he remembered, was the thing. For two years, when Harry remembered the incident, he always tried to downplay how gorgeous he had found Louis as soon as he’d seen him. Tried to pretend his hair hadn’t been as soft as it’d seemed, his lips not as warm, his eyes not as blue.

Harry couldn’t speak for Louis’ hair or his lips anymore, but his eyes were maybe even bluer and sparklier than he remembered, and it was terrible, because Harry wanted to be angry. He wanted to be resentful, wanted to be indignant that Louis had strolled right in, clearly remembered who Harry was, and hadn’t mentioned it or apologised for being a shit.

Harry didn’t expect every person he slept with to declare their undying devotion to him, but a goodbye and a thank you for lending them his bed was the least anyone could do. Leaving in the middle of the night without a word merited at least a ‘sorry.’ Leaving Harry in the wrong room for Marcus to find should at least earn him more than a sheepish look from Louis.

But Harry was not going to be the one to bring it up.

At noon, he left Louis gazing up at a water stain in the upstairs guest room and went to the kitchen to fix Julia lunch. He didn’t have a high chair for her, so he sat her in her pram and kept the chatter up while his back was turned.

He was in the middle of telling Julia about one of his favourite professors when he heard a floorboard groan, and he turned to see Louis hovering just outside the door.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt your story,” he said. His hands were behind his back, the toolbox he’d been hauling all through the house since he arrived nowhere in sight. “I finished going over your list.”

“Oh,” Harry choked a little, and had to swallow before speaking again. “And what’s the verdict?”

“There’s maybe five items I can see to today, I’ve got everything I need with me, so it's no problem.” He wiggled his fingers at Julia when she strained to look at him around her pram, leaning so far out of her seat she would have fallen if she hadn’t been strapped in. Harry was holding an apple in one hand and the peeler in another, standing a little dumbly by the counter. Louis still hadn’t entered the kitchen. “I can fix the toilet, the step on the stairs, and the wall, but I need to buy some supplies.”

“Um, you can start with the easy stuff, I guess. But you’ll have to talk with Marcus about what you need to buy. That’s - that’s Paul’s cousin.”

Louis nodded, swinging his weight back and forth on the balls of his feet.

“Sounds good,” he said.

He stood there. Harry stood there. Julia waved her roll of masking tape around.

“Guess I’ll get started,” Louis finally said, and there was something resigned about his smile. Harry bit his lip and nodded. It was terribly awkward. He couldn’t help but wonder if Louis was remembering their night together every time he looked at Harry. Harry sure was, no matter how hard he tried not to.

Louis turned to walk away and Harry looked down at his hands.

“Oh!” He was an idiot. “Are you, um, Louis!” Louis whirled back around, smiling a little wider but trying to tamp it down. “Are you hungry? We’re about to have lunch.”

“Starving, yeah, thanks,” he said and finally crossed the threshold into the kitchen. Julia made a happy sound, waving her tape madly in front of herself. “Hey, Jules, you’re enjoying that tape, then?” He looked at Harry. “Need any help?”

“No, just, can you watch her while I finish?”

“Sure, we’re best friends already. Right?” Harry couldn’t see the face Louis made at Julia but it made her laugh and throw her arms up. He turned around quickly. It would be easier to stay angry at Louis if he didn’t pay attention to him. “Yes, I see you’re still holding on to your tape. Good girl. I bet you’re hungry after helping me so much. What’s the nice man cooking for you?”

Louis’ voice was high and, although he talked quite softly, it was rough as if he was recovering from a cold. Two years before, Harry had thought it had to do with him having spent the night shouting over the party music, but apparently that was just his voice. Harry didn’t know why he cared.

“The nice man’s very busy and can’t answer us,” Louis said in a loud whisper, and Harry had to cough to mask the laugh that almost escaped him. “But don’t worry, I bet he’s a very good cook. We should trust him.”

Julia babbled and Louis hummed in understanding. Harry tried to hold on to his anger and resolve to be cold, but fuck, it was hard. Behind him was an attractive man having a conversation with a baby while they waited for Harry to feed them, a picture that pandered directly to Harry’s biggest fantasies. It didn’t help that he knew what Louis looked (and sounded) like when he came. It didn’t help that Louis didn’t seem to be the twat Harry had made him out to be after he left him.

They ate.

Julia had bits of chicken breast and pureed apples mostly by herself (although Harry helped her when her clothes started to look too much like a piece of modern art) and Louis and Harry shared tea and sandwiches. They talked, mostly Louis and mostly through Julia, and had a second cup of tea. When they were finished, Louis got up and started on the dishes, ignoring Harry’s protests.

“You should change her before she makes a mess of the whole house, crawling around covered in food.”

It was all too domestic, too comfortable, Louis gathering their plates as if this wasn’t the first time they shared a proper meal, rolling up his sleeves and getting to work like he lived there.

And what a difference would it have made to live with someone like Louis instead of Marcus. Harry wouldn't have survived, he was sure.

Later in the afternoon, after Julia had her nap and Louis was done fixing the faucets of both the kitchen and the upstairs bathroom, the annoying squeaking of Harry’s bedroom door and the window that always stuck in the sitting room, the three of them stepped out into the tiny back garden. Julia, all bundled up in her sweater, coat and one of Harry’s jumpers just in case, cooed at the sight of the grass, nearly diving out of Harry’s arms in her enthusiasm.

“Whoa there,” Louis said, there in a second, one hand underneath Julia and the other on Harry’s shoulder. It was the first time Louis touched him all day, and it sent a flash of heat up Harry’s neck. “We’ve got a little daredevil here.”

Harry was frozen, Julia’s protests over not being let on the ground going mostly unheard as he tried to school his expression into something neutral. The urge to bring the topic up, to ask Louis about that night was almost unbearable. Harry wasn’t usually one for one-night stands, he got attached too easily, too strongly. But there had been something about Louis that night - something that had made Harry believe Louis was someone he wanted to see more of, wanted to hear more from. They had talked for hours (Louis had talked, Harry had listened and stared and laughed and drank) before their touches started to linger and their looks turned headier and suddenly there hadn’t been an inch of space between them.

Louis had seemed lovely back then and still did now, with the added bonus of Harry knowing he was sweet with kids as well, which was honestly not a piece of information Harry wanted to have. Not when Louis wasn’t an option anymore because he’d been a arsehole, and he’d made things with Marcus worse and maybe he had wounded Harry’s pride a little, Harry could admit that. No one had ever left and not contacted him again after sex before. It stung, and this was another reason why Harry didn’t do one-night stands: he liked feeling wanted too much. He liked boys being clingy and he liked attention.

He liked being clingy and attentive in return.

While he pondered this, Louis inspected the cracks on the little patio leading to the grass patch Harry liked to call a garden. The chain link fence on either side of it was covered in vines, which looked pretty and gave the yard the illusion of privacy.

By the house, Louis crouched to take a closer look at whatever else Marcus wanted to get fixed, and Harry’s eyes went straight to his backside. Louis hadn’t bothered to put his coat back on to go outside, and the soft fabric of his joggers pulled tight over his bum.

Harry remembered Louis’ bum all too well. He remembered how firm it had felt in his hands, how it had gone tight as Louis came on Harry’s face.

The following morning, there had been dry come in his hair. He’d discovered it after his awful conversation with Marcus. His shirt was tacky with it as well, because they had used it to wipe Harry clean afterwards and Harry had rubbed it over the stain he’d left on the hardwood floor without bothering to take it off. He probably smelled. Christ, Marcus’ room probably _reeked_.

Thankfully, he was pulled out of his mortifying memories by the familiar sound of Ms. Torres’ back door swinging shut with a clang. A second later, her face popped up over the fence.

“It’s a bit cold to be playing outside,” she said and Louis, who had been distracted, startled and fell on his bum. He scrambled up with a yelp.

“Jesus, that’s cold,” he whined, and then seemed to realize exactly how cold it was and how underdressed he was, because he put his own arms around himself and hunched his shoulders, shuddering a bit theatrically. “You had the right idea, sweetheart,” he told Julia, referring to all the layers she was wearing, and then looked up at Harry and winked.

Harry felt himself blush up to the roots of his hair.

“And who are you?” Ms. Torres asked, giving Louis a once over.

“Louis, the handyman,” Louis said, went to offer Ms. Torres his hand and then realised they couldn’t shake over the fence. He waved instead, a smile on his face. “I’ve come to make the place look a little prettier.”

Ms. Torres still looked assessing, but Harry noticed the skin around her mouth had softened.

“I do my best, put flowers up and everything,” she nodded towards the side of the house, where her flowerpots adorned the downstairs window sills.

“They’re lovely,” Louis said. “I can’t grow flowers, can’t seem to keep them alive.”

Ms. Torres looked him up and down again, glanced at Harry and then said, “Come over for tea and cake later and I’ll give you some tips.”

If Louis was surprised at the invitation, he didn’t show it. He only hugged himself tighter and smiled.

“I’d love to.”

“You, too, Harry. After the little one goes home.”

Julia was distracted chewing on the tassels hanging from her hat, and Harry bounced her a little.

“Did you say hello to Ms. Torres?”

She blinked at him, at Ms. Torres, and finally found Louis standing a few paces away. She lifted her hand and opened and closed her little fist, her version of a wave. Louis did the same and shuffled closer.

And then closer, until his arm was pressed against Harry’s and Julia could reach out and grab at his hair. Harry felt him shivering.

“Cold?”

“Freezing. Sorry, mate, but you’re really warm.”

_Mate_. Harry nodded and tried to be as still as possible.

“Are you done here? Outside, I mean,” he asked, shifting so that Julia was snuggled between them. Louis all but melted into her warmth.

“Just about, there’s not much I can do for the cracks over there. I do alright, but I’m not magic.”

Julia found the hood on Louis’ jumper and pulled on it, getting her mouth on the soft fabric almost instantly. Harry tried to dissuade her without actually moving away, even though Louis didn’t seem bothered. A moment later he looked up to find Ms. Torres staring. He felt himself blush again, and sent her a one-shoulder shrug. She smirked like she did before sharing a particularly scandalous piece of gossip.

“I’ll see you boys later. Go, get out of the cold.” She hoped down from the stool she’d been perched on and disappeared from view. A second later her door slammed again.

Louis gave a full body shudder.

“How about some more tea?” he asked, turning his blue, blue eyes on Harry. They looked translucent, framed by long lashes. Harry felt he could almost fall into them.

They went inside and had tea.

.

Louis couldn’t stay long after that. He had plans, he said. Harry’s belly twisted. He was having dinner with his sisters, he said. Harry’s belly filled with warmth.

“Give my best to the lady next door,” he told Harry by the front door. “I’ll be around for that cake some other time, yeah?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Alright, I’ll be here Wednesday, then. You don’t have lessons that day, right? I’ll go shopping for supplies and finish everything I can.” He smiled, hat back on his head, scarf back around his neck. When he turned to head to his car, he stumbled, and Harry jerked forward to help keep him on his feet, Julia squealing in his arms. His hand closed around Louis’ smaller one, already cold. Louis’ fingers curled around his, clinging.

“Yours?”

“Huh?”

“The cat?” Harry looked to where Louis was gesturing, and found Bigotes sitting on the ground, right in the perfect spot for someone to trip over him.

“Oh, no, he just likes to visit,” Harry said, only then realising he hadn’t seen Bigotes all day. Maybe he was wary of strangers, although the way he let Louis scratch his head quickly proved that theory wrong.

“You’re like a proper Disney princess, aren’t you?” Harry didn’t have time to get defensive, the word one of Marcus’ favourites to tease Harry with, before Louis went on. “Attracting cute children and animals, flowers on your windows…” He looked up at Harry. “I reckon you look a bit like Snow White, actually.”

Harry couldn’t stop the smile that bloomed on his face. He bit his lower lip between his teeth and tried to remind himself about Louis leaving him, about waking up to Marcus’ accusations with Louis’ come still on him, about not even getting a note goodbye.

Louis straightened, ignoring Bigotes’ indignant meow. Julia grabbed onto the front of Harry’s sweater and peered down at him - they had a turbulent relationship, those two. There had been too much tail-pulling and claw-swiping between them for their interactions to be cordial.

“It was nice seeing you again,” Louis said quietly, and Harry looked at him. There was that smile again, the resigned, self-deprecating one he’d given Harry before, when he had been hoping Harry would offer him lunch. “We never spoke again, after.”

_And whose fault was that?_ Harry wanted to ask. He might have, if Louis hadn’t looked quite so uncomfortable and small in that moment.

“Yeah,” Harry agreed instead. “It was good to see you, too.” It was stiff but honest. “I’ll, um, see you Wednesday.”

“See you then,” Louis nodded, and then focused on Julia.. “See you, darling. Enjoy your tape, try not to eat it.”

Julia’s ‘ah!’ sounded like agreement. Louis waved at them one last time, stepped over Bigotes, and walked back to his car. Harry went inside and heard Louis drive away through the door.

.

Marcus was not happy when he got home. He had apparently been expecting everything to be done in a day, and he stalked through the house muttering to himself and texting his cousin about everything Louis had left unfinished.

“He didn’t have everything he needed to finish,” Harry tried, sitting on the floor with Bigotes and watching Marcus walk by for the third time in five minutes.

“He knew what he was coming over for, he should’ve brought the stuff with him,” Marcus grumbled, eyes on his phone, fingers flying.

“He did a lot, I think,” Harry said, feeling defensive on Louis’ behalf.

“He didn’t even fix the fucking step, Styles,” Marcus shot back, finally looking at him.

“He’s got to buy the wood first, and-”

“What’s this? Have a little crush on the handyman? He your type?”

Harry scowled and looked down at Bigotes, refusing to be goaded into an argument. Marcus only ever brought up Harry’s sexuality when he wanted to be a prick, and Harry normally tried not to engage too much. If he did, Marcus could end up going too far and Harry would freeze, as he always did, and it would only spur Marcus on. Adding Louis to the picture made keeping quiet harder, though, because everything Marcus said felt just a tad more personal.

“Just saying he did a good job,” he mumbled, petting Bigotes and smiling when he felt his happy purr against his legs.

“Well, the tap in my bathroom’s still leaking.”

“Your door is locked, did you want him to kick it in?” The silence that followed Harry’s comment was tense. He waited, looking down, for Marcus to reply, to say something sharp that Harry would try to ignore and pretend it didn’t hurt. After spending most of the day around Louis and the light he seemed to carry around him, being with Marcus was especially draining. Not even Bigotes distracted him as he usually did.

“So, what? Am I supposed to pay him back after he buys all the stuff he supposedly needs?” Marcus started pacing again and Harry rolled his eyes. “I’m not an idiot, I’m going with him.”

Harry felt sorry for Louis having to spend time in a store with Marcus on a budget. Harry had lived it enough times back at the beginning, before they decided Harry would take care of the groceries and Marcus would pay for the utilities and the internet service. It had taken months for Marcus to stop timing Harry’s showers.

“Wednesday then?” Marcus asked with a sigh.

“Wednesday,” Harry confirmed. Maybe he could text Gemma and tell her to warn Louis, since Harry didn’t have his number. Or maybe Louis deserved to spend a few hours with Marcus, since he hadn’t thought of giving Harry his number in the first place.

“Make sure you dress up for your boyfriend.” It was said in parting as Marcus made his way across the room again and up the stairs, and the words were tame, could be taken as regular teasing, if it hadn’t been for the scathing tone.

Harry flipped Marcus off behind his back, and then slumped against the leg of the couch, Bigotes rubbing his face on his fingers.

He had just closed his eyes when he heard Marcus stop before reaching the landing.

“Do you even have Home Depot here?” Harry heard Marcus ask and he frowned to himself. _Home what?_

.

Harry was sitting in class the next day, trying not to fall asleep, when his phone buzzed with three new texts. He glanced at the screen and did a double take.

**Unknown Number:**

_Hey, I got your number from Gemma. I didnt know she was ur sister_

_This is Louis btw_

_Your roommate is blowing up my phone he s intense !_

He sent a quick look to the front of the room to make sure his professor wasn’t paying attention to him and then picked up his mobile. He hesitated for a moment before he caved and saved Louis’ number, and then he pinched his lip between two fingers, trying to think of what to say. Louis hadn’t written him to ask a question or tell him anything important. It seemed as if he just wanted Harry to have a way to contact him. And, okay, part of him was going _Ha! Two years too late, mister!_ , but the other was quietly excited.

In the end, he settled for being polite, as usual.

**Harry:**

_Sorry about him, he’s not very nice._

**Louis:**

_He’s accused me of scamming him_

_He knows im not a professional, right? I did what i could yesterday promise_

_Somethign break?_

**Harry:**

_Everything was perfect._

For the first time since Harry could remember, he had fallen asleep without the sound of the bathroom tap dripping and, when he’d opened his bedroom door, the hinges had been quiet.

**Louis:**

_Did u think of anything else that needs fixing?_

Harry stared down at his phone, something like nerves fluttering in his belly. There was no reason for Louis to be texting him. There was no reason for him to continue texting him after making sure Harry had his number. Either he was bored or he wanted to speak with Harry just because. He did a quick mental inventory of the house. Marcus had been thorough with his list, and he’d already contacted his aunt about the repairs they wouldn’t be able to get done before Saturday.

**Harry:**

_There’s some shelves I have to put up._

The shelves had been gathering dust in his closet for over a year, since Harry was self-aware enough to know he shouldn’t be around wielding dangerous machinery by himself, and he would never ask Marcus to help him. It wasn’t something he needed to do at this point. The shelves were his and he was supposed take them with him when he left.

**Louis:**

_I can be there today at 4pm_

A thrill went through Harry, and he mentally kissed his shelves goodbye.

**Harry:**

_See you then._

.

Harry was not proud of himself, but he spent the hours between two in the afternoon, when he got home, to the time Louis was supposed to arrive stressing about what he looked like.

The day before he had spent his entire time with Louis in a holey shirt, his hair up in a little bun at the top of his head to keep it off his face and worn joggers that did not fit him as nicely as Louis’ did. Today he decided to keep the skinny jeans he had worn to class, but had to practically dive inside his closet to find a nice, form-fitting sweater - the heat was acting up as usual, the house was chilly once again. He let his hair down, liking how glossy his curls looked after a good wash that morning, and even put on two of his favourite rings, something he avoided while in the house because Marcus never failed to make a comment about it.

He was glaring at a pimple on the edge of his jaw in the mirror when the doorbell rang, and his heart hit the roof of his mouth.

“Calm down,” he told himself, clammy hand over his chest. His heart was suddenly racing, and he hated that he felt this nervous about a boy that probably only needed extra cash, probably had only texted Harry to check if there was more work he could get paid for.

Harry didn’t want to think about what Marcus would say when he found out Harry had asked Louis to do something that hadn’t been on his list.

When he opened the door, after giving himself a second to breathe, he found Louis crouched on the floor, petting a happy-looking Bigotes with a gloved hand. Both of them looked up at Harry, their eyes even similar colours, and then Bigotes was stalking inside between Harry’s legs, and Louis was standing up and smiling.

“He’s cute,” he said, nodding towards where Bigotes was probably claiming his spot by the couch. “What’s his name? Bigot?”

A loud laugh bubbled out of Harry’s mouth, and he slapped a hand over his lips, cheeks burning.

“Bigotes,” he said, pronouncing it just like the Martinez kids had taught him. Bee-goh-tehs. “Means whiskers.”

Louis nodded and absently touched the reddish scruff on his face, “He’s got quite the set. So, he’s a Spanish cat?”

“Don’t know, could be from anywhere. I never found out who his owner is.”

“Ah,” Louis said, and Harry stared at the way the light hit his face, the little freckles on his cheek, the soft strands of hair peeking from beneath the brim of his hat. “So...shall I come inside?”

Harry scrambled out of the way, hanging his head. He wasn’t normally so awkward. He could be smooth, he could be suave. Louis made him stupid - no wonder things had ended up the way they had between them. Harry was all of a sudden embarrassed of the time he’d taken making sure he looked nice, and was considering going upstairs to change into a pair of trousers that left him some breathing room when he turned in time to catch Louis taking off his coat.

Gone were the joggers and baggy sweatshirt Louis had been wearing the day before, a sensible outfit for an afternoon working in home improvement. Instead, he’d apparently chosen to show up in a shirt that clung to his shoulders and was snug around his waist, where his spine curved right above his bum. His jeans looked as tight as Harry’s, except he filled them out so much better, just as Harry remembered. He had to stare, had to watch the slight sway of Louis’ hips as he walked over to the coat rack. He was still ogling him when Louis turned around, and Harry’s eyes snapped up to meet amused ones, to see the smug smile on Louis’ face.

Harry had to bite down a smile of his own. He wasn’t the only one who had put some thought into his looks, and as embarrassing as being caught staring was, as fresh as the sting of Louis’ sneaking out was, a sliver of hope and anticipation flared in his tummy.

“No baby today?” Louis asked after a moment, his eyes roving over Harry’s body shamelessly, making Harry have to supress the urge to squirm.

“Um, no, not on Tuesdays.”

“That’s too bad, was kinda looking forward to seeing the little one again.” He smiled and bent to pick up the toolbox and drill case Harry hadn’t even noticed he had brought in. “Guess I’ll have to settle with your cute face instead.”

Harry willed said cute face not to flush.

“Guess you do,” he said, his voice coming out a lot deeper than he meant, and was rewarded with Louis’ cheeks going a lovely pink.

So. They were officially flirting. Harry was good at that, when he wasn’t so nervous his palms were sweating. It had been so easy when they met the first time, when Louis had been a stranger and had laughed at Harry’s drunk jokes and kept him from injuring himself when he unavoidably stumbled every two steps he took. Now there was _history_ between them, there was all sorts of _knowledge_. Louis had seen Harry on his knees, naked from the waist down, had fallen asleep kissing him. Harry had mouthed at Louis’ dick through his pants, had heard Louis whimper all high like he couldn’t help himself. The sound had come back to haunt Harry for days afterwards, had slipped into his thoughts while he wanked, angry at himself for getting off on memories of the boy who’d abandoned him in the wrong bed.

Harry led the way upstairs, Louis following close behind. His room looked just as he’d left it: bed neatly made, curtains drawn to let in the light, the pile of discarded clothes he’d accumulated on the floor shoved inside his closet and out of sight.

“Roommate’s?” Louis asked as he walked inside, looking around distractedly.

“No, um, mine,” Harry clarified. Louis looked puzzled, and he looked around a little more closely. Harry’s room was a bit dull, since he wasn’t allowed to hang anything on the walls and most of his furniture had come with the house. His bed was the flashiest thing in it - a deep purple comforter and colourful throw pillows littered over it.

Harry tried not to focus on the bed, though.

“Oh,” Louis said after a moment. “I thought-” He looked at Harry, a frown on his face before his expression cleared and he smiled again. “Nevermind, let’s see those shelves.”

Harry was actually expected to help this time. He had to pencil in little dots where Louis said as he held a level up against the wall. He stood by as Louis drilled the holes, hands over his ears as Louis laughed, yelling that Harry should be protecting _his_ ears instead. He held each shelf against the studs Louis had attached while Louis made sure they were straight, and then handed Louis random knick knacks from his desk to display them.

“And make sure they’re not going to come crashing down as soon as we weigh them down a bit,” Louis explained, although Harry knew he’d done a good job. Those shelves were going to be up a long time. Harry could add them to the list of things he was going to miss after he moved. They were nice shelves.

They stood side by side once Louis was done, shoulders brushing as they admired the finished work. Harry wondered how angry Marcus would be when he found out Harry had had holes drilled into a wall, but couldn’t bring himself to regret it.

“You’re moving then?” Louis asked eventually, shifting so that their arms touched. “Going back home? You’re from Manchester, right?”

“Yeah but, no, not home,” Harry replied as he fiddled with the sleeves of his sweater. They were long, one had a hole where Harry could stick his thumb in, and everytime he did it stretched a bit more. “I’m looking for a place in the city.”

Harry couldn’t remember telling Louis where he was from. Maybe Gemma had.

“Yeah? What’s wrong with this place? You’re not that far from town.” Louis bumped their elbows together, giving Harry a sideways smile. “And I reckon you could fix it up quite nicely if you hired someone who knew what they were doing.”

“We, um, Marcus, it’s his aunt’s place. He’s going back to America and I think they want to sell it.”

“That’s too bad,” Louis said, eyes boring into Harry’s. “Will you go visit him?”

For the second time since Louis arrived, Harry barked out a laugh loud enough to rattle the windows. He cackled, nearly doubling over. Visiting Marcus. The thought alone-

“Is that funny?” Louis asked, and Harry wiped at his eyes, still giggling.

“Yeah, actually,” he said. “No, I won’t be visiting him.”

“Don’t get along, do you?”

Harry shook his head, chewing on his lips to keep himself from laughing again.

“That’s surprising.” Louis turned to face him properly, hands powdery with plaster dust behind his back. “You seem like the type to get along with everyone.”

Harry didn’t know what to say to that. He was a social person, he liked talking to people, he enjoyed meeting his neighbours and his classmates and knowing their names. Marcus was the exception to every rule Harry had ever lived by when it came to interpersonal relationships. It wasn’t only that they didn’t get along, but they genuinely didn’t like each other, and Marcus never missed a chance to remind Harry why.

He shrugged, not wanting to get into it, and Louis was gracious enough to let it go.

“Looks good?” he asked instead, gesturing towards the newly installed shelves.

“Perfect,” Harry said, glancing over for a second before his eyes drifted back towards Louis. He was gorgeous. His shirt swooped low across his collarbones, where Harry could see the hint of the tattoo he knew was there. They had spent a good hour when they met comparing tattoos, admiring each other’s inked skin while the party went on around them. It hadn’t been until Harry mentioned the ones on his thigh and Louis had countered with his own that they had moved things upstairs. Louis had a smiley face drawn high up on his leg. Harry was pretty sure he’d left a bruise over it, mouth greedy before he had moved upwards.

“Harry,” Louis said and Harry snapped out of his daze, guiltily looking up from Louis’ crotch only to find Louis wasn’t smirking as he’d expected. He looked serious, a nervous expression twisting his mouth. Belatedly, Harry realised that this was the first time Louis had called him by his name since they’d introduced each other, two years before. It was nice to know Louis remembered. “Did you ever- I mean, I hoped you’d call.”

Confused, Harry frowned.

“Call?”

“Yeah, I- He’s not your boyfriend, is he?”

“Who?”

“Your housemate.”

“My hou- No! Ew, no.”

A smile threatened to appear on Louis’ face, but he seemed to fight it down.

“Was he? Back then?”

“No, never, he was never my boyfriend, Jesus,” Harry babbled, mind reeling, going from the fact that Louis was actually bringing up _back then_ to the horrifying images he was putting in Harry’s head.

“Oh.” It was Louis’ turn to frown in confusion. “I see.”

An uncomfortable silence descended on them. Harry fiddled with the hem of his sweater, feeling himself curling inwards.

“Um, why?” he asked when he couldn’t keep quiet anymore. Louis looked up at him, eyes a little wide.

“Well, like I said, I’d hoped you called.”

“I, um, I only got your number yesterday, though.”

“No,” Louis argued. “No, I gave it to you before, that time. You know.”

Harry’s head spun. Had Louis given Harry’s number two years ago and he’d somehow forgotten about it? There was no way. He’d been drunk but he hadn't been _that_ drunk. He remembered everything, from their futile search of condoms, to drifting off to sleep together, to waking up alone.

“Okay, maybe I didn’t _give_ it to you,” Louis went on, gesturing a little wildly with his hands. “But I left it for you. Left um, quite an embarrassing note along with it.”

There had been no note. Not that Harry had seen, at least, but he’d ran out of the room pretty fast after Marcus had walked in on him so it wasn’t as if he’d had time to check.

“You didn’t have to call, of course, I mean, I did leave without saying goodbye but I tried,” Louis was looking more and more panicked, almost as if he was hoping Harry would stop him, but Harry was stuck, staring, mouth slack. “I tried waking you but you sleep like the dead, let me tell you, and I had to go to work and-”

Louis finally snapped his mouth shut, and he brushed his fingers across his hair, pushing it back off his forehead with a heavy sigh. He looked exasperated with himself, and he rolled his eyes up to the ceiling before looking at Harry again.

“I left a note on your desk. Or, your roommate’s desk, I guess? Was that your room back then? Because I remember going into the other one, and the bed faced the other way and-”

“That,” Harry’s voice came out hoarse. He coughed to clear it. “That was Marcus’ room.”

Louis gave a short, awkward laugh.

“Guess that explains it,” he said, but it sounded more like a question to Harry.

“I, um, Marcus found me in his room in the morning.” This was the first time Harry had said it outloud. He’d never told the story to anyone, and it was harder than he thought. “He’s not- He thought- Um, I guess he thought I was there for him? And he didn’t like it. And I, I didn’t have time to look for any notes.”

Louis’ eyes had been getting bigger and bigger as Harry talked, his lips slowly curving up into a smile, and, no, it wasn’t funny.

“It’s not funny!” he cried, throwing his arms up. Louis burst out laughing. The sound was enough to calm Harry down, although he puckered his lips into a pout, which only made Louis laugh harder.

“I’m sorry, babe,” he said between giggles. “I just, you’re right, it’s not funny but I thought, I thought you’d been too drunk and regretted everything and that you’d burned my embarrassing note on the stove.”

By the end of the sentence, Louis wasn’t laughing anymore, although his eyes were still softly amused.

“I kinda thought maybe I’d taken advantage of you, when you didn’t call.”

Harry shook his head, hair flying in his face. “I just didn’t get the note.”

Again, that little flare of hope lit up in his belly. Louis was smiling again, small and tentative. And Harry wanted to step closer, wanted to check if Louis’ hair was still as soft as he remembered.

“What’d the note say?” he asked instead, tangling his fingers together. Louis laughed down at the floor, fixing his fringe carefully.

“Soppy things,” he said.

Harry liked that he had inspired soppy things after only one night. He _liked_ soppy. He hated that the note was lost, and hated even more the fact that he knew exactly what had happened to it.

“Marcus must have found it,” he said, and took a small step forward.

“Quite rude of him,” Louis replied, glancing down at Harry’s feet and looking up again, eyes dancing. Harry fidgeted. “Since it was clearly addressed to you.”

Harry took another step.

“Addressed to ‘Curly’, actually, so unless he’s got curly locks like you, there’s no excuse.”

Harry’s next step brought him as close to Louis as he could get without touching. He had to tilt his head down a bit to meet Louis’s eyes properly. He held his breath for a moment, waiting to see if Louis would step back, but he merely glanced down between their bodies.

“You’re awfully close,” he said, tone playful.

“I’m, um, I’m glad you left a note.” Harry’s words cleared the smirk from Louis’ face. Louis shifted and Harry saw, out of the corner of his eye, his hand come up to brush a curl behind Harry’s ear. The feel of Louis’s skin brushing against his temple sent a shiver down to his knees.

“You thought I snuck out on you, didn’t you?”

Cheeks growing warm, Harry nodded. All of a sudden, it felt silly to have thought that about Louis. He didn’t seem the type, hadn’t seemed the type back then either, but with the evidence staring at Harry in the face (cold bed, shoes and coat gone, no trace that he’d ever been there in the first place) Harry had drawn the logical conclusion. He was glad his first instinct had been right: Louis was too sweet to leave without a word. He’d even left a soppy note for Harry to find.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Louis said, thumb tracing the skin beneath Harry’s eye, the curve of his cheekbone. “I waited days for you to call, ask any of my friends.”

“I believe you.”

“You do, huh? Conceited, are you?” His fingers pinched at Harry’s cheek and Harry pushed closer, so that their fronts were pressed together and he could feel Louis’ heart beating against his chest, was sure Louis could feel his. Louis’ hand landed on Harry’s shoulder to keep himself from toppling backwards. “Whatever are you planning on doing now?”

Harry saw Louis lick his lips, did the same himself and saw Louis’ follow the motion with dark eyes.

“I, I’m gonna kiss you,” Harry mumbled. “If you want me to.”

“‘course I want you to,” Louis said and Harry didn’t wait a second longer. He leaned forward, brushed his mouth against Louis’, felt his shuddery exhale against his skin, the soft give of his lips. Louis’ arms went around his shoulders and his hands tangled in Harry’s hair at the back of his head.

Harry couldn’t say that he remembered exactly the way Louis had kissed him two years before, but he could say that he did it perfectly now - manhandled Harry so that he was tilting his head just right, laughed when their noses bumped, opened up for Harry’s tongue with a little sigh that shot straight to Harry’ groin.

Not five minutes had gone by (maybe not even one, Harry’s head was spinning) when there was a soft meow coming from the floor. They pulled apart to look down at Bigotes entering the room, and a second later, the front door slammed shut downstairs.

The bottom dropped out of Harry’s stomach. He jerked backwards, a nervous stab in his chest. Louis looked bewildered, worried, his hands still held aloft. Harry instantly felt stupid.

“Sorry,” he said, crowding in close again. “Sorry, that’s Marcus.”

Louis’ hands curled around the sides of his neck.

“Are you sure he’s not your boyfriend, love?” he joked, and Harry laughed, shaking his head.

“Not my boyfriend,” he said, turning his face into Louis’ palm and letting his eyes drift shut, much like Bigotes normally did when Harry petted him.

“Styles!” Marcus called from downstairs. His voice cut through the moment, and Harry had to step away again, couldn’t help himself. “Whose car’s outside?”

Harry and Louis looked at each other. Louis’ lips were bright pink, and Harry’ chin felt chaffed.

“You’re all white,” Louis said. He reached out and Harry noticed the plaster dust coating his palms and now probably all over his face a hair. He smiled as Louis tried to dust him off and made him worse in the process.

“It’s fine,” he said. “I’ll wash it off, you should go downstairs before he starts thinking you’re a burglar or something.”

“Will you come as well?”

“After I look less like a ghost, yes.” Louis grinned and smeared some more dust along Harry’s cheeks. “And, um, please don’t tell him about the shelves. I’m hoping he won’t notice them.”

Louis’s eyes widened, all but twinkling in mirth.

“Are you saying you lured me here under false pretenses? I am appalled.”

Harry pushed at Louis’ shoulder playfully and then scrambled to keep him up when Louis nearly tripped over Bigotes, who was curled into a ball behind him.

“This cat’s trying to kill me,” Louis mumbled, bending to scratch between Bigotes’ ears.

“Styles?” Marcus called again, sounding closer to the downstairs landing, and Harry ushered Louis out of his room. In the bathroom, Louis washed his hands as best he could (“Look at this, not a leak in sight. A job well done, this is”), and then left Harry to sort himself out.

Once alone, Harry looked at his face in the mirror. There were white smudges all over his cheeks and his neck, white powder on his collar and in his hair. He stuck his head under the faucet and scrubbed it all away. When he straightened, his face was flushed and his hair was dripping. There was a helpless smile on his lips that he couldn’t suppress.

Louis had left a note.

It made him feel giddy, knowing that Louis had taken the time to write him more than his number scribbled on a spare piece of paper. He had tried to wake Harry up, and when he couldn’t, he’d written a note. With soppy things. Harry didn’t know what kind of soppy thing Louis had been able to write after only knowing Harry for a couple of hours and it made him sad that he would never get to find out.

Maybe Louis could tell him. Soppy things were best said out loud, after all.

Louis’ mood seemed to have shifted when Harry walked downstairs a few minutes later. His face, before soft and relaxed, was pulled into a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Marcus was probably being his lovely self, then.

“That’s an interesting man you’ve got for a roommate,” Louis told him when he caught sight of Harry. Marcus wasn’t in the sitting room, but Harry could hear him moving in the kitchen. “Quite forward, isn’t he?”

“What did he say?” Harry asked, stopping himself from touching. He couldn’t, not where Marcus could walk in any moment.

Louis shrugged and hooked a finger around one of Harry’s.

“You okay?” he asked. “Is he this much of a twat to you?”

Harry was opening his mouth to reply when Marcus’ footsteps started approaching. He let go of Louis’ hand just in time.

“Here’s the list,” Marcus said, and then seemed to notice Harry. “Were you in the shower this whole time?”

Harry knew what Marcus meant: “ _Did you leave this stranger to wander the house by himself?_ ”

Harry rolled his eyes and shook his head no, not wanting to start an argument with Louis there. He went to sit on the couch, trying to ignore the concerned look Louis threw at him before Marcus grabbed his attention again.

The list was the one Harry had written under Louis’ instruction, of the materials they needed to buy for Louis to finish with the repairs. Marcus went through every item, had Louis explain why he needed it and how much it would cost. Louis couldn’t tell him prices, but he went through the ‘why’s and ‘how’s of each item in painstaking detail. Harry had to stop listening at one point to keep from laughing, but he still caught Louis sending him a smile over Marcus’ shoulder.

“Okay,” Marcus said eventually. He hadn’t even sat down, hadn’t offered Louis something to drink. Harry hadn’t either but he’d been distracted, it wasn’t his fault. “I’ll drive with you to the store.”

“Now?” Louis asked.

“Isn’t that why you’re here?” Marcus turned and gave Harry a narrow-eyed look. Louis seemed to notice Marcus’ suspicion, because he jumped to take the attention off Harry.

“Yeah, of course, just thought you might wanna...have tea. Before.”

“You people and your tea,” Marcus said in what he probably thought was a teasing tone but came up sounding terribly rude. Louis scowled. “Fine, have your tea and we’ll leave after. You know a Home Depot close by?”

“Home what?” Louis asked. “Is that an American shop?”

Marcus sighed the way he did everytime he found Harry a little too British for his taste.

“It’s a home improvement store? Big orange sign? They sell pretty much everything on your list. You Brits never heard of it?”

“M’afraid we don’t have those here in our wee island,” Louis said and Harry swore his accent was thicker. “No worries, though. We’ve our own shop with an orange sign that might just work. How’s that?”

Louis’ speech was slurred together in a mockery of his usual Northern accent, and Harry laughed into his hand at Marcus’ furious expression.

“Is that supposed to be funny?” he asked and Louis clapped him on the back.

“Just teasin’ ya, mate,” he said, not letting up one bit. “We Brits love a good laugh, don’t we, Harry?”

“That we do,” Harry agreed, getting on his feet. “Let me fix you a cuppa.”

“Ah, what a good British lad, this one. Making our Queen proud, he is!”

They left Marcus fuming in the sitting room and Harry didn’t even worry about repercussions. Their days living together were numbered, after all, and for the first time since he’d found out he’d have to move he felt as if he had something to look forward to.

.

After some soft cajoling from Louis, Harry agreed to drive with them to B&Q. It was a twenty- minute drive, and Harry was stuck in the back of Louis’ car because Marcus had insisted on riding shotgun.

Harry kept meeting Louis’ eyes on the rearview mirror and biting down on a smile. He felt like a teenager making eyes at his crush and he loved it. Loved that Louis kept sending him winks and kept rolling his eyes every time Marcus made an offensive comment. Harry wasn’t sure if Marcus was aware they were making fun of him, but he guessed he was by the way his tone turned more and more sour the further they drove.

Sadly, Marcus wasn’t the type to shut up when it was clear no one wanted to listen to him, and he droned on and on about the poor state of the motorway, the old model of Louis’ car, how he had woken up to Ms. Torres watering the flowers on their windowsills _again_.

“Oh, is that the lady next door? I’ve met her, she offered me cake,” Louis said, smiling at Harry through the mirror.

“I wouldn’t take anything from them, who knows what they put in their food.”

There was an ugly silence after that statement, and luckily no one spoke again until they reached their destination.

“Is he serious?” Louis asked Harry in a whisper after Marcus had gotten out of the car.

Harry shrugged. Yeah, Marcus was serious. He would be gone in a few days, to be a horrible person far away from Harry and nice Ms. Torres.

Shopping with Marcus was as excruciating as Harry remembered. He was the kind to ask a question to an employee and then argue about what they clearly knew better than him. He was the kind to take a photo of every price tag just in case they tried to charged him a different amount. He was the kind to take the front of the shopping trolley and steer while Harry tried not to bump into anyone or anything.

At least Louis was there, still affecting his accent so that not even Harry understood half of what he was saying. He walked next to Harry while Marcus browsed and they talked. Louis told Harry (in his normal accent) that he was teaching a drama class two nights a week and that he might start teaching longer classes next semester. He told Harry that his family was also from Manchester, and asked Harry’s mum’s name and street just in case his own mum knew her.

“It’s a big city,” Harry laughed and Louis waved his comment off.

“You never know, Harold. Might be next door neighbours, how mad would that be?”

They weren’t, of course. Harry would have remembered growing up next door to Louis.

They were busy talking about the places in their city they frequented as kids when Marcus spoke up.

“Can you stop that and pay attention? You’re so embarrassing, you’re practically on top of him.”

He was speaking to Harry, and Harry’s first reaction was to lean away, only then realising how close he was standing. He didn’t get a chance to move before Louis’ arm was sneaking around his waist and pulling him even closer.

“Maybe I want him on top of me,” he told Marcus, looking at Harry with a glint in his eye. “Nice British boy like him, who wouldn’t?”

“We’re in public,” Marcus hissed. Harry could see his eyes moving over his body, going from his long hair, to the rings he’d forgotten to take off, to his heeled boots. He probably looked like everything Marcus despised.

“Mmh, maybe I like it that we’re in public,” Louis said, his voice, already naturally rough, seemed to catch and turn even raspier. Harry was frozen, pressed close to Louis, almost as close as they’d been when they were kissing. He knew Louis was teasing. He was trying to rile Marcus up. And while he was succeeding, he was also managing to fluster Harry into a stuttering mess. He couldn’t even speak to join in the teasing, too focused on the way his crotch pressed against Louis’ hip.

Then he heard Marcus mutter, low but loud enough, “Disgusting,” and felt Louis tense all around him.

Harry expected Louis to raise his voice. He expected him to confront Marcus the way Harry only imagined of doing. But instead, he smiled and addressed Harry.

“Let’s go take a walk, darling,” he said and didn’t wait for a reply before he was pulling Harry away from the trolley, leaving a protesting Marcus behind. They turned into the flooring aisle and walked down to the other end.

“Louis-” Harry tried, wanting to say something. Louis’ shoulders were set in a tense line, his jaw clenched. He reached for Harry’s hand without looking and Harry let him have it, let himself be pulled around the corner and into the tiling aisle.

It was a Tuesday evening and the place was nearly deserted. Harry and Louis stood facing a display of colourful bathroom tiles, not saying a word. Harry’s hand was starting to sweat in Louis’ grip, and he wanted to wipe it on his jeans, but he wanted to hold Louis’ hand even more, so he ignored it.

“Why do you live with that guy?” Louis asked after a long minute. Harry had been wondering the same thing at least once a day for two years.

He shrugged.

“Gemma,” he said. “Paul’s cousin was going to stay at the house while he worked on his Master’s and he had an extra room. Paul set it up so that I wouldn’t have to pay rent. I, I didn’t have a job back then, and I didn’t want my mum to pay for it. Dorms were almost as expensive as a room in a flat, so.”

Louis nodded along, fingers squeezing around Harry’s.

“Is he always such a prick?”

“He’s gotten worse now that he knows he’s leaving soon,” Harry said with a laugh, although he sobered quickly enough when he saw the serious look on Louis’ face, eyes still on the display case in front of them. “I could’ve moved out last summer, really, but I love the house. And I love the people I’ve met there.”

“You’re a sweetheart, aren’t you?” Louis moved closer, finally looking at him, and tilted his face up to brush a kiss on Harry’s jaw. “I can’t tell you how hard it was to bite my tongue. I’m going to kick his arse.”

Harry laughed, the sound echoing down the aisle.

“Please don’t,” he said and Louis kissed him again, his chin this time.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Louis asked, nose against Harry’s cheek.

“He’s gonna be family someday, I guess, if Paul and Gemma-”

Louis leaned away and Harry stopped himself from following.

“You can call family out for being pricks,” he said. “Next time I’m not going to stay quiet.” Harry nodded, staring into Louis’ earnest eyes, and sighed when Louis closed the distance between them again.

“You’re too tall in those boots,” he complained against the underside of Harry’s chin. “Come down here.”

Harry obliged.

The kiss was a little deeper than Harry would have normally indulged in in public and he would have slowed down if it hadn’t been for the fact that kissing Louis felt a bit like a privilege, and he wasn’t going to start being picky now. Besides, no one was around.

He’d had his fair share of public snogging sessions, had even once slipped his hand inside an old boyfriend’s jeans in a crowded club, surrounded by people, music loud around them.

This was different. It was quiet, for one, the only sounds that of their tongues sliding together and Harry’s breathy gasps. It wasn’t crowded to the point of being claustrophobic like in a club, where everyone was too busy enjoying themselves to care about what the rest of the people pressing against them were doing. It was empty, or at least their aisle was, but if someone were to turn the corner, Harry and Louis would be hard to miss.

Louis grabbed Harry’s coat lapels and pulled him closer and Harry forgot about where they were for a moment. Everything felt hot. Louis’ skin where Harry was touching his neck was damp with sweat, and their breaths when they pulled apart to breathe were wet and warm.

“You’re wearing so many clothes,” Louis murmured against his lips. Harry wanted to remind him where they were, but he was interrupted. “Remember what you looked like last time? You were wearing nothing but your shirt then, weren’t you? What would that look like now?”

If Harry was hot before, it was nothing compared to what he felt after hearing those words. A full-body flush engulfed him and he kissed Louis again, licking into his mouth and pushing him back a step with the force of it, until Louis’ back hit one of the support beams in the display structure. The mental image (him, bare bum on the filthy floor, kneeling before a fully-clothed Louis) had him growing hard in his jeans, which were too tight for anything to go on inside them comfortably.

He rutted against Louis a little desperately, looking for relief, and Louis laughed into his mouth.

“ _Lou_ ,” he whined, embarrassed, but not enough to stop. He ground against Louis’ thigh again and sighed when he felt Louis push back, sliding his knee between Harry’s.

“Are you gonna rub yourself off on me then?” The question had Harry swallowing around a moan. Anyone could walk past them any second and find Harry hunched over Louis, mouth attached to his neck and hips jerking. At least his coat was long enough to hide them a bit.

Louis seemed to have the same thought, because he grabbed at it and pulled the fabric around himself. He came so close to Harry then that they nearly went cross-eyed staring at each other.

“Hold this,” Louis said in a hush. Harry took his own coat in his hands and watched, dizzy, as Louis lowered himself to his knees. Harry went offline for a second, and when he came back, his ears were buzzing.

He wanted to protest. He wanted to tell Louis to stop, someone could walk by, _Marcus_ could see then. Except he didn’t really want Louis to stop - not when his hands were going to Harry’s belt, quick fingers undoing the buckle and moving to his fly.

Harry glanced up and around him. He probably looked suspicious, standing almost pressed to the display shelves, his back to the aisle and head tilted down towards his crotch. His coat was long, but it only came down to his shins. If anyone took a second to pay attention they would easily see Louis’ legs folded on the floor.

The thought made his cock twitch.

Louis grabbed him through his underwear and held him for a second, and when Harry looked down at him again, he was staring at Harry’s crotch with his tongue poking out of his lips.

“Louis,” he managed, whispering and amazed that his voice worked at all. Louis tilted his head up and his eyes were nearly black.

“Want me to stop?” He asked, voice gravelly. Harry didn’t even think, only shook his head no.

“Please,” he said. “Just...hurry.”

While Harry had gone down on Louis tongue first that night, licking through fabric until it was spit-wet before pushing Louis’s pants away, Louis peeled Harry’s waistband from his belly immediately and stroked him until he was fully hard. It didn’t take very long.

“I didn’t get to do this before,” Louis said and Harry wanted to tell him that this was not the time to reminisce, but he couldn’t help but whimper a little when he realised what Louis was referring to. Harry had come all over the floor just from getting his mouth on Louis. Sure, he had been younger, but he was certain it would happen again now if Louis ever let him put his face anywhere near his dick a second time.

Louis stroked him, the drag a little dry but Harry didn’t care - watching Louis staring at the way Harry’s cock disappeared into his fist from three centimeters away was enough for him. Harry’s breaths were coming in shuddery little punches that sounded almost like sobs. His cheeks were burning, all of him was. He hips were quivering with the effort it took to keep still, lest he looked even more fucking suspicious, and he wanted nothing more than to bury his hands in Louis’ hair and push him down onto his cock.

He had to keep his coat up, though. His fists were clenched so tightly around the fabric that his rings were cutting into his skin.

Long seconds passed, Louis jerking him off in slow, steady pulls that had Harry near tears. Harry was about to start begging, too nervous about someone seeing him to let Louis take his time, when wonderful, wet, _tight_ heat wrapped around the head of his cock and _sucked_.

Harry’s knees all but gave up on him, and he caught himself on one of the display shelves, letting go of his coat in the process. Louis had his eyes closed, cheeks hollow and cheekbones sharp. Harry could feel his tongue pressing against the underside of his cock and wanted to scream, but bit his own forearm instead, curling around Louis as much as he could to keep him from view.

Louis wasn’t taking his time any longer - he sucked deep and long, squeezed his fingers around what he couldn’t (or wouldn’t) fit in his mouth and grabbed onto Harry’s thigh with his free hand. He looked absolutely obscene, and Harry could already feel the pull deep in his groin, heat gathering in his belly, muscles tensing.

“Louis,” he warned in a whisper, face hidden in the crook of his arm, speaking against the fabric of his coat. “Lou, I’m gonna come.”

Louis stopped and Harry nearly yelled. He pulled away and Harry made the mistake of looking down at him. His mouth was pink, his cheeks flushed, hair sticking to his temples and his forehead with sweat. It was probably quite toasty down there on the floor and corralled in, and Harry nearly burst out into hysterical laughter, nerves and anticipation making him giddy. Louis was still holding onto his cock with his hand, mouth still so, so close to Harry’s flesh he could fucking feel him breathing.

“ _Louis_ ,” he said again, hips rolling. “Someone’s gonna see.”

“I think you like that idea, love,” Louis told him, squeezing, and then leaned forward and swallowed Harry down. And down and down and down, until his nose hit Harry’s belly and Harry’s eyes rolled to the back of his head and he probably blacked out for a second or two. His orgasm, as it hit him, seemed to roll up from his toes, and he had to grab onto Louis’ head and hold him where he was until he was done, panting and maybe crying a little.

Louis pulled away with a slick sound that nearly made Harry groan. Both their eyes were wet, and Harry let go of Louis’ hair to wipe his own face dry as Louis tucked him back in. He was tingling all over, still seeing white spots in front of his eyes, and if someone had walked close by in the last two minutes, there was no way Harry had noticed.

He couldn’t bring himself to care.

Louis was still dragging Harry’s zipper up when Harry grabbed him around the collar and pulled him to his feet. He didn’t even think before kissing him, just as deeply as he had before, and smiled when he felt Louis blindly buckling his belt back up. Multitasking. Good.

“Let me,” Harry mumbled, going for Louis’ jeans, planning on pulling Louis off quickly before they had to go find Marcus again, but Louis pushed his hips away with a huff.

“No, no way, Curly. I’m not walking through B&Q with sticky pants.”

Harry laughed and kissed him again. When Louis pressed back in, Harry could feel the hard line of his cock against his thigh. Maybe they could dash to the loo, or to the car. He needed his mouth around Louis, needed to feel him come apart again, needed him close, closer, and now.

It was only by chance that he happened to look to the side, towards the far end of the aisle, and see Marcus standing there, hand limp around the trolley handle and face so pale Harry could see it from a distance. Harry jumped away, detaching his mouth from Louis’ and startling him into looking as well. There was no use wondering how long Marcus had been standing there - the shocked, slightly confused expression on his face said everything.

 Harry flushed even as he finally burst out laughing, unable to keep it in any longer, suddenly so embarrassed he was dizzy. He held onto Louis to keep himself upright and laughed so hard he had to close his eyes and rest his forehead on Louis’ shoulder. When he managed to calm down and check, Marcus was gone. He’d left the half-full trolley behind.

“Oh my God,” he whimpered, still giggling. His belly hurt. “Oh my _God_.”

“I know,” Louis said, petting his hair. “I bet he’s proper jealous right now.”

Harry cracked up again.

.

They couldn’t find Marcus anywhere, and when they left, they didn’t buy a single thing. Harry was almost certain Marcus would not be asking Louis to fix anything else at the house. They drove back singing along to the radio at the top of their lungs and snogging at every stop light.

Harry felt exhilarated. He didn’t know if it was because he had just gotten head in the middle of an open shop or because he couldn’t wrap his mind around the fact that Marcus, who had once refused to leave the house with Harry if he insisted on wearing a pink shirt out, had witnessed Harry getting his dick sucked by another man. The idea was hysterical, the reality a little scary.

He was glad Louis was with him.

They parked across the street from the house. The windows were bright downstairs. Was Marcus waiting for him or was he going to pretend nothing had happened? The latter sounded implausible. Harry didn’t want to find out either way.

“I’m sorry, Haz. I’d rather you didn’t go in there,” Louis told him after staring at the house in silence for a long moment.

“I don’t want to go in either,” Harry said, fingers twisting together on his lap. Marcus wasn’t violent or anything, but the thought of being alone with him after B&Q made dread curl in Harry’s belly. When he felt Louis’ hand on his shoulder, he let himself be pulled around so that they were facing each other instead of the house.

“My friend Liam is looking for a roommate,” Louis said, out of nowhere, and Harry frowned. “His last one dropped out of uni, said she was going back to Essex and ‘work the land.’ We’re not sure what she meant ‘cause her parents are like, lawyers or something. Anyway.”

Louis was nervous, Harry realised. He felt himself calming down just hearing Louis ramble, hands fiddling with Harry’s coat.

“It’s at Shoreditch, Liam’s flat, so not that far from here, really. You could still visit little Julia and Bigot the cat.”

“Bigotes.”

“And I live right near there, too.”

They stared at each other. Louis had literally blown him in a public place and this is what made him nervous. Harry wasn’t sure why he found it endearing.

“How much is he asking for?” Harry asked and Louis shrugged.

“Dunno, but honestly, the place is a bit of a pit, so you could probably talk the price down.”

Harry laughed, “Way to sell it, Lou.” Louis just smiled and pulled Harry closer. He kissed him full on the lips and Harry felt the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end at the contact, as if it was the first time all over again. When Louis moved to hide his face in Harry’s shoulder, Harry let him, and took the opportunity to snuggle up close.

“Spend the night at mine,” Louis begged against his neck. Harry didn’t need to be asked twice.

.

He ended up moving out the following afternoon, hauling his things out to Louis’ friend Liam’s truck while Marcus supervised, making sure he wasn’t taking anything that didn’t belong to him. He wouldn’t meet either of their eyes. Gemma had already called Harry the night before demanding to know what he’d done to freak Marcus out. Harry reveled in it.

The oldest Martinez kids helped them with the sofa, Harry’s only piece of furniture, and Harry cackled at Louis’ dramatic shouts to ’Pivot!’ when there wasn’t anywhere to pivot to. They went next door later to let Ms. Torres know he was leaving a few days early, and she invited both him and Louis for dinner.

Eventually, most of the street showed up, and they stayed up until early the next morning, lights bright and voices loud. Harry introduced Louis to the rest of the Martinez kids and their parents, and Julia smiled and grabbed Louis’ nose when she saw him. They had empanadas and meat pies (which were pretty much the same thing, except Harry was never going to say that out loud) and even Bigotes made an appearance. Harry denied tearing up when he was saying goodbye to him, no matter how much Louis insisted that he had.

They were the last ones to leave, Louis and him, laden with leftovers and cake. Ms. Torres made them promise to come visit soon. When he was getting in the car, Harry saw Marcus standing on his doorstep, staring at them. Harry waved at him, making sure his dimples popped, and closed the truck’s door with a satisfying thump.

Louis smiled at him from the driver’s seat, eyes droopy with sleep, and Harry settled in for the drive. Outside, it was starting to snow, still too early for the sun to be up. Harry hoped his things didn’t get too wet back on the truck’s bed.

He sent one last look out the window and found Marcus gone and the lights off. On either side of the house, Ms. Torres’ and the Martinez family’s windows were still alight, people still moving inside.

He was going to miss the house. He was going to miss the little shops and his neighbours, but maybe the prospect of moving didn’t seem so sad now. Not with the memory of Marcus’ horrified face the day before still fresh in his mind, and Louis’ hand warm and reassuring on his thigh.

Harry squeezed Louis’ fingers in his. They drove away with a flicker of the headlights and a soft honk goodbye.


End file.
